Finding Mr Holmes
by Dramione84
Summary: John's grown used to Sherlock's strange habits and nocturnal escapades, so he thinks nothing of it when his friend begins spending more and more time out and about at night. That is, until Mycroft stops by 221b with a bizarre newspaper and a mysteriously moving map. Perhaps there's more to this Diagon Alley place than he originally thought. *Inspired by Nights In Diagon Alley*
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:** Inspired by the brilliant piece 'Nights In Diagon Alley' by xxDustNight88, my beautiful beta!

(Insert disclaimer regarding Harry Potter and Sherlock etc...won't bore you, fans know what belongs to their fandom and if I was making £ from this, I wouldn't be here ;) ) If you haven't read the fic that inspired me yet, well, go read it. Stop reading this, and go read it. Now. Come back when you're done. Read it? Ok, well then you now know what belongs to xxDustNight88 and the rest is what I came up with in response... that's what I love about fanfiction; that it's in constant flux and dialogue with other authors.

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Turning the corner, he spotted the tell-tale sign of the visitor, inwardly groaning. As he reached the front door, he found his left hand reaching up to _un_ straighten the knocker as his right dove into his pocket to fetch his keys. Before he could, however, the door suddenly flung open, the small woman crying out exasperated.

"John! That blasted man is upstairs again," she complained, stepping to one side as John moved into the hallway.

.

"You know, I have a 'phone, Mycroft. You could just call me. Or send a text. I also have email," he stated, pointing to the laptop that sat open on the table.

"Why would I do that, when I do enjoy our little chats so much?" Mycroft drawled.

John stood staring at Mycroft, waiting for him to announce the reason for his visit.

"Where is he?" he asked, his nonchalant tone attempting to mask his fraternal concern.

"No idea," John answered.

"Come, come, now." Mycroft smiled "We both know that he is not on a case, and has few friends, and yet, there is a pattern to his nocturnal sojourns. So I will ask again, where is Sherlock?"

Unmoved by the statement, John continued to stare at him. "And we _both_ know that you have us under constant surveillance so if anyone is to know where Sherlock is, that would be you."

John watched the elder Holmes as the corners of his mouth twitched, betraying his taut smile. "He appears to have gone off the grid." His words were carefully chosen, spoken slowly.

Frowning, John broke eye contact with Mycroft his eyes darting in confusion as he processed the statement. "Off the grid?"

"What do you know about 'Diagon Alley'?" Mycroft asked, sitting himself into his brother's chair. The frown creasing John's forehead deepened. "Never heard of it. I told…"

"Sherlock the same, yes," Mycroft finished, his smile increasing.

"Of course you have never heard of it, because to _our kind_ , it does not exist."

"What do you mean?" John asked, settling into his own chair across from his best friend's brother.

"The British aristocracy has always been aware of the existence of magical beings, living separately to our own kind. Muggles they call us. How quaint," Mycroft explained in his nonchalant manner.

John laughed. "Magical beings?" He scoffed, watching as Mycroft took what appeared to be a newspaper from inside his jacket. Silently, he handed John the paper, watching him carefully as he unfolded it, staring at the front page. It was unlike any paper John had seen before, entitled 'The Daily Prophet.'

John shook his head as he examined the headline printed on the page. "No, I read about this in 'The Telegraph'. The Millennium Bridge had structural issues that were triggered…"

"By the unusual weather, yes. I am aware. I was the one who gave the editor the explanation they were to print," Mycroft cut him off again, much to his chagrin. "You must surely be aware of our _relationship_ with 'The Telegraph.'" He smiled, referring to the cover provided to Foreign Office and MI6 agents by the newspaper. It was one of the government's less well-kept secrets. If Mycroft told 'The Telegraph' to print something, 'The Telegraph' would print it, no questions asked.

"So what does this have to do with Sherlock?" John asked, perplexed, as he turned the page of the newspaper, jumping as the picture inside moved.

Mycroft laughed as John's gaze snapped up to meet his. "Intriguing little thing isn't it?"

John crushed the pages together, handing it back to Mycroft. "Well?"

"Ah, yes, my little brother seems to not understand he is a Muggle," Mycroft stated, cryptically as he reached into his jacket to retrieve another document. "This document has been in our possession since it was confiscated from a gentleman on a rather interesting motorbike in 1980," he explained, handing the document over for John to inspect.

Carefully, John took the document, reading the words aloud as they appeared across the top of the page, "Messrs Moony, Wormtail, Padfoot, and Prongs, Purveyors of Aids to Magical Mischief-Makers, are proud to present: THE MARAUDER'S MAP, Diagon Alley Edition." He looked up at Mycroft who sat opposite him eerily reminiscent of his brother. "What's this?"

"Open it," Mycroft replied, gesturing to the document.

With trembling hands, John opened the document, startling slightly at the ink markings of footprints, names in scrolls above them, as they moved across the document. His eyes darted over the document, reading the names.

"It's a map," he whispered, looking up at Mycroft who simply nodded. "Looks to be of a shopping precinct."

"Indeed, but alas you see but you do not observe."

John rolled his eyes at the familiar statement before returning his gaze to the map, scanning the document before they fell on one particular section. There, on the map were two sets of footprints, scrolls above them reading their names: Sherlock Holmes and Hermione Granger.


	2. Chapter 2

John rolled his eyes as he came to an abrupt stop just yards from 221B. The pretty brunette smiled as she stepped out of the car. For a moment John remained on the pavement before sighing heavily and getting in.

"Again, you could just text," he stated, staring ahead as the car made its way along Marylebone Road in the busy late afternoon traffic.

Mycroft smiled but gave no reply.

"Where are we going?" John casually inquired as he gazed out of the window, watching as they edged their way past Madame Tussaud's.

"To see an old friend," came Mycroft's drawling reply.

The car crawled along into the borough of Islington and John had to wonder if it would have been quicker to walk as the afternoon bled into the evening rush hour. They could not have travelled more than two miles in the 28 minutes he had been in the car as they turned off Pentonville Road and into King's Cross Road. Noting the name of the road as they pulled to a halt outside the Georgian town houses, he realised he was unfamiliar with this part of the city. "Claremont Square," he murmured to himself as the driver switched off the engine.

"And who is this friend?"John frowned, as he turned to face Mycroft who sat beside him, cross legged, making no moves to exit the car.

Mycroft smiled. "Heir to the most noble and ancient house in England." he replied, somewhat cryptically.

John's frown deepened as he looked away, eyes darting in confusion. "Well I don't think this is Buckingham Palace this time," he remarked sarcastically.

Mycroft chuckled. "No, so you won't be taking any souvenirs from this visit," he replied with a knowing smile. "This is the home of the heir to the highest aristocratic seat in all of England."

"Again, still not Buckingham Palace," came John's chuckled reply as he sat completely baffled.

"Wizarding England." Mycroft whispered with a twinkle in his eye.

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"I am starting to wonder if perhaps you and Sherlock share some of the same habits," John remarked, jogging round from his side of the car as Mycroft crossed to the pavement outside the little terrace. John looked up and read aloud the name plate.

"Grimmauld Place. Okay, now I know we are in a twilight zone because Grimmauld Place is not in Islington, it's the other side of Regent's Park." John stated, his mind reeling.

"Yes, you see but this is the _Other_ Grimmauld Place," he drawled, giving John a curt nod. "Note the houses."

"What am I looking for?" came Johns confused reply as he stepped forward, squinting at them. "They are all identical."

"Are they?" Mycroft responded, half amused by John's failure once again to see.

"Wait, there is no number 12." John replied, turning back to Mycroft. "But that…" he whipped back round at the houses. "But there is a number 13."

"And what is remarkable about that?" Mycroft pressed, as John puzzled.

"British superstition. Most roads do not contain a number 13, they skip from 12 to 14," John stated. "I still do not understand."

Mycroft chuckled. "Number 12 is there John, you just have to _observe_ ," he explained, stepping forward and heading up the steps of the house in front of him.

John's gaze darted from house to house, counting the numbers from one through 11 and 13 through to the end of the terrace. Number 12 was definitely not there. He then counted the gates and found he had a gate too many if number 12 was indeed missing.

"It's an illusion," Mycroft stated as he reached the front door, his back turned to John who had given up and jogged up the steps to stand beside him. He looked up as Mycroft straightened the knocker, realising the door had no number. His mind must have skipped it out. How bizarre, he thought as he watched his companion lift the knocker to rap on the door.

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The redheaded woman stood before them confused, her complexion paling at the mention of the man's name. She turned and called over her shoulder, "Harry, could you come out here please?"

She stepped to one side as the dark haired man came to the front door. "Can I help you?" he asked, his tone measured but polite.

"We are here to see Mr Black." Mycroft replied, his stoic expression betraying nothing as John shifted his weight uncomfortably, as he watched the exchange. Something was off, but he couldn't put his finger on what.

"You had better come in," he man replied, opening the door wider, allowing them into the hallway. His wife motioned for them to enter the drawing room to their left, watching as the pair filed into the room silently.

"Can I get you some tea?" she asked, nervously. John presumed the question was more of a reflex than a gesture of hospitality. "No thank you, " he replied, smiling, as he attempted to calm her nerves.

"I am Mr Harry Potter," the young man began.

"I am aware of who you are Mr Potter." Mycroft smiled as he crossed his legs. John turned slightly in the seat beside him. "You are?" he quietly questioned. Mycroft replied with a slight nod.

"And I am aware of who you are, Mr Holmes." Harry replied, fixing his gaze on Mycroft who gave a small chuckle.

"Well, if someone could explain to me, that would be helpful," came the voice of the redhead beside Harry. John looked across at her, noting that she seemed quite furious as to the intrigue.

Harry placed a reassuring hand on her knee. "Ginny, this is Mycroft Holmes," Harry told her, his gaze returning to Mycroft. "His brother is a friend of Hermione's."

The corners of Mycroft's mouth twitched as her taut smile threatened to break. Ginny looked startled. "What do you mean? And what does this have to do with Sirius?" she asked, darting a glance over at Mycroft. John glanced around at them, bewildered by the conversation. "Er, I am sorry, but Sirius?" his gaze fell on Mycroft.

"Sirius Black, Heir to the Most Noble and Ancient House of Black, godfather to Mr Harry Potter, member of the Order of the Phoenix and agent of Her Majesty's Secret Service."

John watched as Ginny's eyes widened at the revelation that he was a secret service operative, but as her complexion continued to pale, he grew even more confused.

"It seems, Mr Holmes, that you do not keep a good record of your operatives. "

Mycroft's smile tightened. "And why do you believe that, Mr Potter?"

"Sirius has been dead since 1996," Harry replied, his green eyes betraying no emotion as he maintained eye contact with Mycroft.

John's mind reeled at the turn the conversation had taken as his eyes snapped to Mycroft who tutted quietly, giving his head a small shake. "More's the pity. We were rather hoping for his assistance."

"With what?" Harry's tone remained even.

Mycroft leant forward slightly, his smile returning as he drawled, "We need to get into 'Diagon Alley'."

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	3. Chapter 3

Harry raked his hand through his hair as he paced. "You don't understand," he stated, rounding on Mycroft who sat inspecting his manicured fingernails nonchalantly.

"What you are asking, it's just not possible."

John looked from Harry to Mycroft, his eyes taking in the stark contrast from the agitation of the young man to the indifference of the man sat next to him on the couch.

"Yes," Mycroft drawled, the taut smile returning to his lips. "Sirius once claimed that himself and, yet my, dear brother has achieved a task you claim impossible."

Harry scowled. "I have no idea how your brother has been able to get into the alley, but he shouldn't have been able to do so. You don't understand," he sighed, collapsing into the couch next to his wife Ginny, who instinctively placed a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "It's not just that there are spells and enchantments to repel muggles; it's unplottable. It's...Merlin, where's Hermione when you need an encyclopaedic explanation of something this complex?"

"Hermione?" John asked, frowning. "Isn't she the young woman Sherlock has been visiting?" His voice betrayed a level of concern that caused Mycroft's eyebrow to quirk momentarily as he glanced at John.

Harry sighed. "Yes."

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The sleek car pulled silently away, leaving John on the pavement outside 221B. For a moment he stared down the road, watching as the car moved the corner before turning and staring at the door. Uncertainty tugged at his psyche as he puzzled on what to do. Finally, with a drawn out sigh, he pushed his hand into his pocket and pulled out his keys, slotting them into the lock. Once inside the flat, he settled into his armchair and stared absently at the empty chair opposite him. Huffing, he dug his fingers into the arms, pulling himself up and strode over to the desk, retrieving that day's copy of _The Guardian_ from the clutter before returning to his armchair. Opening the paper, he scanned the headlines, taking none of them in, before closing the paper with a heavy sigh. He stared once more at the empty chair before leaning over to one side to remove his mobile from his pocket. No new messages, no emails, no notifications from his blog. He placed the device on the end table, lost in thought as Mrs. Hudson suddenly appeared in the room.

"Off again is he?" she questioned, as she busied herself in the kitchen.

John hummed his reply.

"He could call," she remarked as she filled the kettle.

Again John hummed, staring at the empty chair.

Suddenly, John gripped the armrests, forcing himself up out of the chair, stalking towards the door, before hurrying down the stairs, leaving a startled Mrs. Hudson holding the teacup and saucer on the threshold of the kitchen.

"Well," she huffed, before turning and tipping the contents of the cup down the sink.

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The taxi came to a halt half way along Henrietta Street as John pulled his wallet out of his jacket. Paying the taxi driver, he turned, pulling the map from his pocket.

"This is insane," he muttered under his breath as he searched for some clue as to where Sherlock could be.

Turning into the plaza in front of the Covent Garden Market, he narrowed his eyes, scrutinising the various buildings, trying to spot any inconsistency that would suggest something amiss. Muttering under his breath, he paced the courtyard, before circling the market itself, past The Royal Opera House before turning back into Henrietta Street.

"This is ridiculous," he muttered, scratching his head, oscillating indecisively. Inside his pocket, his mobile vibrated alerting him to a text message. Taking the device out, he frowned at the screen.

 _Mycroft_

 _Any progress?_

Rolling his eyes, John thrust the phone back in his pocket, scowling at the buildings as the street lights hummed on in the dusk evening.

"Wait a minute," John murmured, his eyes narrowing at the buildings in front of him. On the corner was The Ivy, a bar and grill, it's dark green parasols standing proudly out the front. The next building along, 3 Henrietta Street, was a cream building, the blinds in the window suggesting that it was a place of business. However, what drew John's attention was a door.

A single door with no number and a doorknob in the middle. This door stood in between the two buildings, it's brick surround seemingly no part of either building that stood next to it. John's eyes travelled up, counting the four windows, one on each story, above the door. Each window appeared to be boarded up inside.

"How peculiar," John commented, remembering the way the home of Mr Harry Potter had seemingly blended in unnoticable. He tried to recall whether he had noticed the property when he got out of the taxi and found he could not recall seeing it previously.

Tentatively, he approached the door. Feeling the urge to look up, he then spotted the sign, the blacked but otherwise unmarked board hanging above the door, causing John to frown.

"How odd," he murmured, reaching for the door.

Nothing could have prepared John for the sight that greeted him as the door opened.

There, in front of him, was a wall.


End file.
